Where we belong
by NairobiWonders
Summary: Joan and Sherlock work into the morning hours at the brownstone. Joanlock


Her head, heavy with slumber, fell slowly, drifting sideways, until her neck muscles just gave up the fight. With a sharp plunk, her head bopped to the side and instantaneously lurched back to an upright position. Joan was suddenly awake. She sat dizzy, not knowing who or where or why she was. The fog of a deep sleep too quickly abandoned clouded her mind. Squeezing her eyes shut, she focused: the hum of electronic equipment, the smell of leftover pad-thai ... oh, last night's impromptu dinner ... the case, the media room, the brownstone... each piece clicked into place and she sighed in relief. Her eyes opened. Joan waited as her vision acclimated to the low light before moving.

The shadowy outline of a body at her feet caught her attention. Sherlock lay sleeping on the floor. As usual, he had worked until his body could take no more and then dropped dead asleep where he lay. Kitty had had enough sense to take herself to bed hours ago. Joan had kept working until sleep, apparently, overtook her as well.

Easing her stiff body from where she had wedged it into the chair, she lowered her feet to the icy floor, careful not to step on Sherlock. She could have sworn he had been closer to the wall when he fell asleep, but here he was underfoot. Typical, she thought, as a slight smile tugged at the corner of her lips. He looked quite comfortable, but the cold floor just could not be good for him. Joan took the blanket from the back of her chair, draped it over Sherlock and made her way to the stairs.

Each barefooted step followed the next in soft steady rhythm as she descended the dimly lit stairs. Joan missed the moments spent alone with the old house. She missed the wallpaper, stained and torn but still holding on to its faded beauty; she missed the cracks in the plaster, the rooms full of equipment, books, locks, the mismatched furniture ... No matter how hard she fought the feeling, the brownstone was still her home in many ways.

She reached the bottom landing. The obsidian darkness peered in from the kitchen windows but the soft yellow light over the counters guided her way to the stove.

The pipes groaned their displeasure at being forced into labor at the early hour. Joan filled the kettle and enjoyed the small burst of warmth from the blue gas flames as they erupted beneath the metal bottom. She shivered. The cold seeped in through every crevice and gap of the house and each wisp of icy air somehow found its way to her. The tea would help, as hot and black as she could make it; but a sweater would help even more.

Sherlock's bedroom door was wide open. The room was dark in lighting and decor, but she knew her way around well enough; Joan had put away his laundered clothes on more than one occasion. She chose a pair of terry teal socks and his old dark striped sweater. Covered in fuzzy nubs and embellished by a moth hole or two, the sweater was soft and woolly and would keep her warm.

His clothing, though huge on her small frame, felt right and provided the beginnings of comfort. She made a mental note to bring over socks and a sweater to keep here; winter was fast approaching and she was sure this would not be the last night she spent working all night at the brownstone.

Joan went back to the stove and sighed contentedly. The quiet of the sleeping household gave her comfort.

Soon enough though, with the body having been taken care of, her mind started poking at her sense of well being. Familiar thoughts lined up and began to swirl. What was she doing? Why was she here? She was falling back into old habits with him too easily. She'd sworn that she would not allow him back into her life but she had caved-in almost immediately upon sight of him. What did this say about her? She did not need him. She did not need this life. Did she want it though ...

:/:/:/:/:/:/:

Something was missing. Something was gone. Sherlock, his eyes still closed, was roused from sleep by the lack of something. The ambience in the room had changed. Filtering out the electronic hum, he listened. He squeezed his eyes tight and nodded to himself - Watson was gone. Opening his eyes, he raised his head slightly and turned his gaze to the chair. Even in the low light of the room he saw the emptiness - not there. Sherlock had moved closer to her chair after she fell asleep. The sound of her breathing comforted him, let him relax knowing she was safe and there with him. He missed the nights in her room. Sherlock shook his head and berated himself, just like an old dog at the foot of his mistress.

The floor was cold. He creakily sat up and wrapped the blanket tighter around himself. At least she'd cared enough to put a blanket around him. Why she still cared at all was a mystery to him. Yes, he was full of bravado and rhetoric around her, hoping she wouldn't see past it all and into how unsure he was, how little he felt he deserved her friendship. He moved to sit in the chair she had occupied hoping to find a trace of her, the lingering whiff of her fragrance. He found nothing but cold vinyl; he sat and brooded. How had he allowed himself to become so dependent on her, their lives so tangled in each others. Putting an ocean and time between them had not helped him disengage; if anything, it created more questions, more emotions that he just did not understand how to handle.

They both were capable of operating very well without the other, there was no question as to need - they did not need each other. But there was the question of want. Sherlock very much wanted her in his life, but as to what Watson wanted ... he wasn't sure. He had wounded her, and in turn himself, with his self-serving solution. Walking away had resolved nothing.

He sighed, he'd been up this road too many times and there were no answers to be found here. Sherlock stood and forced himself to start the day. The witness interviews needed reading as did the officer reports. Personal matters could wait. Sherlock started towards the stairs.

/:/:/:/:/:/

Absorbed in his own thoughts during his descent, he missed all the small clues that, on a better day, would have informed him Watson had not left. He reached the lower level, turned and stood at the threshold of the kitchen surprised at the small form standing at the stove. Almost comical in his sweater, long enough on her to serve as a dress, and the bright too-large socks flapping at her feet, Watson stood waiting for her water to boil. His shoulders relaxed, his countenance brightened at the sight of her. Sherlock said nothing and enjoyed a moment of just watching her.

"Are you just going to stand there gawking, or are you going to help?" She spoke to him without turning around. Joan picked up a lot of his habits and mannerisms in their time together.

Sherlock cleared his throat, "I was not sure if it was you or a street urchin." He took his blanket off and set it on a kitchen chair as he walked up to her. "My clothes look, uhm ...quite decent on you." The words escaped with more sincerity than he had meant them to carry. He gave her a side glance and caught her pleased expression right before it turned into a squint and a small purse of her lips. Sherlock took down the mugs while she sorted through the tea bag stash to find his and her preferred breakfast teas. She handed them over to him. The toast popped. She plated them, handed them to him who in exchange gave her two more pieces of bread for toasting.

Joan poured the hot water into the mugs as he got the butter from the fridge. "Marmalade?" he asked. She shook her head no.

The preparations finished, he picked up the mugs and she the toast. "Why don't we ..." He pointed with his chin to the sofa in his room. "It's less chilly... I'm going to have to weather strip doors and windows down here again."

Joan took the blanket from the chair as she walked towards his bedroom. "That fireplace still isn't operational in there, is it?"

"No. But there's less of a swirl of cold air ... If you want to go up to the library, I can build a fire..."

"No, no, just sit. Have your tea before it gets cold." Joan sat, placing the plate of toast on the small table before them. Sherlock sat next to her leaving a decent amount of space between them but still close enough that she could spread the blanket across both their legs to keep the chill at bay. Further warmth was provided by the hot tea and toast. They ate in silence.

Watson put her empty cup down and settled back onto the couch, tucking her feet up under her so that her knees almost rested on him.

She listened to the tiny creaks and groans of the house. "I miss the brownstone sometimes."

"It'll be yours at some point." Sherlock sounded serious.

"Really? Your father is going leave it to me in his will, is he?" She half-smiled at the ridiculousness of the statement.

"No. But I will. I purchased it from father this past summer." He paused and cleared his throat. "When I pass on, you inherit it and everything else I own."

"Sherlock ... You can't ..."

"Come Watson, we both know I will most likely die before you. And I wouldn't trust my life's work to anyone but you. No one else would understand."

She turned her body to look at him and stared until he was forced to look at her. Her eyes found his, tender and sad. She struggled for words and found none. Filled with an emotion she couldn't verbalize, Joan moved her hand and found his under the blanket, tentatively sliding her hand into his. He didn't pull away. Their fingers interlaced under the warm wool, tightened and held on. They sat quietly for a moment staring at the spot on the blanket beneath which their hands had joined.

Joan spoke. "Doesn't matter. You are not dying before me." She said the words with such authority, that his face betrayed amusement. Beneath the blanket, his thumb stroked the side of her hand.

"Really? And how, pray tell, would you know that?" He used his best high English accent to ridicule her statement.

"I'm a doctor. You can't die until I say so and I won't let you go." She stared seriously at him but the twinkle in her eye gave her away. They shared a rare smile followed by an awkward embarrassment that caused them both to look away.

The quiet settled heavily around them. Sherlock had so much he wanted to say to her but his thoughts and emotions twisted themselves into knots and would not allow the words to squeeze through. Joan, too, contemplated all she needed to say to him, all she needed to hear from him, but her words clung to her chest; the fear of releasing them overwhelmed her.

The silence was ultimately broken by Sherlock, "Joan ..." The use of her first name caught her off guard and her heart skipped a beat in anticipation. His heart raced and his lips formed the only words that seemed appropriate. "...Thank you." The tone of his voice betrayed the deeper meaning of the simple phrase, one whose raw honesty resonated between them. He stared straight ahead. Fear at her response tensed his whole being, his hand still tightly held on to hers.

Joan understood. She understood the thank you was for staying, for trusting, for continuing when anyone else would have given up on him. He was right in saying a bond existed between them, one that she could not begin to explain.

Her hand adjusted itself in his. She found her voice, "Our ... our issues ..." She took a breath and sighed. "We still need to clear the air ... to talk, you know..."

Staring straight ahead, his face stoic, Sherlock acknowledged what she said with a small nod. Joan took pity on him and herself, "But not right now ... not today." She watched his jaw unclench.

She took the liberty of resting her head against his arm and he did not jump. Instead he pulled her hand closer to him, so that it rested up against his thigh and gave it a small squeeze.

Joan nudged his shoulder lightly. "You know, chances are we will die at the same time and, more than likely, by each other's hand."

He cleared his throat, "You joke Watson but you may not be that far off. We may very well end up meeting our end at the same time, in which case, I've left the brownstone and everything in it to Clyde." He emphasized his comment with a lift of his eyebrows.

"And who will take care of Clyde?" Joan was amused at the thought of Clyde as lord of the manor.

"I'm thinking Detective Bell."

She turned her head into his arm and laughed. Sherlock leaned in, encouraged by her laughter, "He would be an excellent tortoise dad. I envision them getting matching suits and ties. Clyde would look stunning in purple."

They went on choosing other guardians for Clyde, speaking in hushed tones, punctuated by an occasional giggle, hands still holding tight beneath the blanket.

...

Around 9:00 a.m., Kitty shuffled into the kitchen, groggily heading towards the coffee maker. She stopped when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw them. Huddled close together under a blanket, his arms wrapped around her, her head neatly fitted into the crook of his neck, Sherlock and Joan sat, both fast asleep. The sight filled Kitty with joy. "About bloody time ..." she whispered. Smiling at the sight of them, she opted to give them their privacy and sought her morning coffee elsewhere.


End file.
